New Poem: RIFFING ON FERLINGHETTI

 did the fun thing

 made the love thing

 tried to get the hang of the work thing

 spent the last year on the lockdown thing

 then the smiling mortician appeared

 telling me I had a disease 

 this disease could be held at bay

 for a few years perhaps 

 before the house wins

 and my affairs demand ordering

 >

 how best to make the most of what remains,

 I think to myself 

as the smiling mortician drives away

New Poem: What poets think about when they praise Amanda Gorman

 she’s There

 maybe one day I can be There too

 with book deals that drop after the Event

 >

 she’s ready to write to order

 tailoring poems to the Event as advised

 >

 the modeling deal doesn’t bother me

 we should have written word rock stars too

 >

 every so often a poet who doesn’t get it writes

Amanda Gorman omitting Colin Kaepernick 

because her brand matters more than truth.  

RITES OF THE COVID-19 SPRING chapbook.

 Now available on Scribd in document form: https://www.scribd.com/document/472173443/Rites-of-the-Covid-19-Spring

New Poem: DONNIE TALK TO SCIENCE

Loosely inspired by Prince’s “Ronnie Talk To Russia” from CONTROVERSY.

Donnie talk to science
Don’t worry about the base
And the one percenters
Riding this out in the Hamptons
>
Pull the un-lockdown ripcord slowly
Stop making fools of Birx and Fauci
>
Open up your gilded Mar-a-Lago
And your Vegas Strip non-casino hotel
To service workers, homeless
And first responders who need some rest
>
Put an end to your foolish pride
Make testing available nationwide
>
Donnie talk to science
Before there’s no one left alive
To talk to you

New Poem: For National Poetry Month 2019

for one month cleaved from twelve
take your verses to the coastline
cast them onto the water
with full confidence they will rest
on top of a temporary layer
of sugarcane that looks like plexiglass
>
this blessed state
expires at the click of midnight
on the not-so-merry First of May
when the sugarcane dissolves
literary creations submerge yet again
as public indifference reasserts itself
>
we will never see a National Poetry Year

New Poem: I CAN NEVER UNHARDEN YOUR HEART

bridges don’t burn

guards appear at each end

to restrict travel to those

whose friendly faces are instant visas

don’t want to ruin what’s left of life

regretting futures that don’t include me

and, perhaps, never did

New poem: 200 BAD POEMS FOR BILLY COLLINS

'Everybody is born with at least 200 bad poems in them. It's best to get rid of them
by college.' --Billy Collins

hello Billy

you don’t know me

but I read your recent comment

and bundled 200 of my poems,

leaving them at the bottom of your driveway

for potential evaluation

I’m aware of how hard it is

to be accepted by Academia--

particularly when you, Billy Collins,

write poems that are easy

for most people to understand

and, to a lot of poets,

it means you’re not trying hard enough

okay, I get it,

you made that 200 bad poems comment

to keep your credibility

with the poets eternally upset

over how you sell more books

than they ever will

also, there’s that desire for intellectual bragging rights

when you appear onstage with Paul Simon and Aimee Mann

and get super-duper-eager to claim your poems

as existing on an equal plane to their lyrics

so go on, Billy,

keep talking about how elevated you are

and how bad all the beginners are

plus all the self-educated poets

like Adam Driver’s Paterson

(in the movie of the same name )

of course, they’re bad too

because they choose not to publish

or share their art

through accepted channels

with people like you

so, here are my 200 poems

destined to enter your blue recycling can

without even a glance at my cover letter

as you regret your long-ago misstep

of criticizing MFA programs

during one of your book tours,

believing this outburst of candor

about homogenized poetry

led to amateur me

annoying distinguished you

Billy Collins explains serious poetry training to you.

In the past, I've appreciated Billy Collins's skill at being both well-crafted and accessible.  I even saw him a couple of times- (Skirball Cultural Center and Pepperdine University).

At Skirball, he seemed to be critical of MFA programs (which most poets consider vital to being taken seriously).

But he now seems to be no more than the kind of pedant routinely found in poetry circles--the kind of person who will inevitably make a snide reference to first-person poems (often, young poets start by writing about their experiences) as diary/journal entry poems or "teenage angst."

And, to top it off, you're not "real" if you don't read every syllable of The Classic Poets/Authors/Thinkers.

Here's Billy harrumphing at perceived Straw Amateurs  via the NPR website:

It really  lies in the simple act of reading tons of poetry. And I mean not just stuff you find in magazines but if you really want to be trained in poetry you need to read Milton — you need to read Paradise Lost. You need to read Wordsworth — you need to read Wordsworth's 'Prelude.'"

"That's if you want to take it seriously. If you don't want to take it seriously, you can just get a 79-cent pen and express yourself," he laughed. "No one's gonna read it with any pleasure because ... you haven't paid attention to what happened in the past."

THE NEW YORKER's Calvin Trillin Chinese food poem upstages National Poetry Month.

http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/apr/06/calvin-trillin-new-yorker-chinese-food-poem?CMP=edit_2221

Calvin Trillin's poem (both text and read by Trillin himself:
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/04/04/have-they-run-out-of-provinces-yet-by-calvin-trillin

Trillin's NEW YORKER biography:
http://www.newyorker.com/contributors/calvin-trillin

My opinion:
Trillin probably intended "Have They Run Out of Provinces Yet?" as light verse poking mild fun at foodies wanting to eat the latest "in" cuisine.  (Guessing David Remnick, who runs THE NEW YORKER, may have had the last word over poetry editor Paul Muldoon on the poem's appearance online/in print.)

Trillin's poem might have been less controversial in 1969 or 1970--when unchecked cultural insensitivity to non-Caucasians and non-heterosexuals was the norm (though, in a rare exception, Latinos successfully managed to have Frito-Lay's stereotyped animated Frito Bandito commercials pulled from television).

In the digital age, reflexive anger and pushback is immediate.

And the sad byproduct is an even greater ignorance of National Poetry Month (though not in Los Angeles, where a lot of poets are still in the afterglow of the AWP convention held last week) in favor of talking about an elderly, long-term NEW YORKER contributor who doesn't know what year/century he now lives in.

Suzanne Lummis, THE NEW YORKER and the likely impact in Los Angeles literary circles.

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/11/03/didnt-get-nunnery

Let's look at this--a win for Suzanne Lummis and her vision of "craft-conscious poetry" and a win for West Coast literary poets who thought they'd never be accepted in the august pages of THE NEW YORKER--on several levels a la INCEPTION:

1. Suzanne will have a boost in the number of potential future students.

2. She'll also have several peers (or those who imagine themselves as peers) who will likely show adoring faces to her while harboring secret "why did SHE get in and I didn't" thoughts.

3. Unfortunately, it's a victory for those in Los Angeles who prefer all poetry emerging from the city to be rather homogenized in terms of notions of quality (the only exception being the welcome election of Luis Rodriguez as the city's Poet Laureate).

4. It's the final, fatal stake through the heart for the more unruly, DIY, coffeehouse non-slam community which used to exist side-by-side with the more Aspirational folks.  And the arrogant, destructive behavior of some of our community's "greatest" poets towards perceived inferiors will increase--along with the timid, for-career's-sake silence that enables it.

5. With THE NEW YORKER achievement and the new book, let's see if Suzanne can use her upsurge to leverage the revival of both the Newer Poets series and the long-dormant Los Angeles Poetry Festival.

Another 99-cent e-book: THE USE YOUR DELUSION POETRY SAMPLER.

Years ago, I wrote a couple of chapbooks about the Southern California poetry scene as I experienced it (and witnessing its effect on other poets).

THE USE YOUR DELUSION POETRY SAMPLER: NEW AND USED POEMS ABOUT POETRY WORLD is a compilation of the best poems from the two USE YOUR DELUSION chapbooks.

For the next three months, it will be on-sale exclusively from Amazon.

It costs only 99 cents.

Here's the link:
http://www.amazon.com/USE-YOUR-DELUSION-POETRY-SAMPLER-ebook/dp/B00O8KPW9M/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1412668547&sr=1-1&keywords=Terry+McCarty

I have a free e-book available now--CONSPICUOUS PRESUMPTIONS.

Not repeating the mistake of U2, their megamanager Guy Oseary and Apple with SONGS OF INNOCENCE, here are links to reading or downloading my new and free e-book of poetry CONSPICUOUS PRESUMPTIONS:
https://www.scribd.com/doc/242107688/Conspicuous-Presumptions
http://www.4shared.com/office/qi5VAYTAba/ConspicuousPresumptions.html
(Note: the 4shared file is Microsoft Word)

New poem: WICHITA FALLS BLUES

 fiftysomething man
 sits far away from the heat and drought
 reads the Twitter post
 from a young Wichita Falls Texas resident
 about how the city is now known
 for drinking recycled "pee water"
 while waiting for rain
 >
 I thought Kevin Costner
 consuming his own body fluids
 in WATERWORLD
 would always be science fiction,
 muses the former Wichita Falls resident
>
 imagining a young man
 going to the Kemp Public Library
 for a few hours of air-conditioned refuge
 passing by the front door sign:
 DON'T BRING YOUR GUNS IN HERE!
>
 it wasn't exactly this way
 when the fiftysomething man lived there
 long long before the abundance of heat
 and the lack of water
 and the tax base shrinking
 and the schools closing
 and the Grand Old Party politicians
 broadcasting and e-mailing
 messages of hate and fear
 plus appeals for campaign cash
 from the relative comfort of Austin
>
 seeding poisonous rain clouds
 that the city of Wichita Falls--
 whether you like it or not--
 can certainly do without
 as citizens wait and pray
 for the real thing to come along

Like drinking vinegar: the "I'm better than you" poem.

Here's Dian Sousa prefacing her poem by bemoaning a job that took her to Las Vegas and (oh, the horror) made her sell Hello Kitty purses:
http://youtu.be/sCclGMcuohQ

Perhaps I'm a relative failure as a poet because I don't think I'm better than others.

David Orr, NEW YORK TIMES literary critic, on James Franco, Poet.

Here's Mr. Orr's review of Mr. Franco's book of poems titled DIRECTING HERBERT WHITE:
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/20/books/review/james-franco-poet.html?smid=tw-share&_r=0

And here's a relevant (at least to me) passage from the review:
"...the annoyance this collection will inspire is rooted in a deeper anxiety: The attention commanded by James Franco’s poetry has everything to do with “James Franco” and almost nothing to do with poetry. And that cultural wealth is not transferable. Attention withheld from Franco’s poems will not instantly devolve upon some worthy but obscure poet; it will go to another actor, or singer, or commercial nonfiction writer, or memoirist — or even to James Franco in his novel-writing incarnation. Poetry is the weak sister of its sibling arts, alternately ignored and swaddled like a 19th-century invalid, and that will change only by means of a long, tedious and possibly futile effort at persuasion. Perhaps it’s a blessing to have James Franco on one’s side in that struggle."

New poem: THE WINNER GOES TO DINNER

THE WINNER GOES TO DINNER
(title inspired by the 1981 film TRUE CONFESSIONS)

the ballots were counted


and the tribe spoke


my torch was silenced
...

I was escorted across

the rope bridge

before the medals

were given out

>

and I realized that

I put on my running shorts

plus the thin sleeveless undershirt

and ran for what seemed like years

but no one felt any desire to add me

to the race's official list

>

Gallants can also be Goofuses

(as I know too well)

Goofuses can also be Gallants

(as I know quite well),

but perceived Goofuses tend

to show their best traits

when Important people aren't looking

>

an example being Gregory Peck

in THE BIG COUNTRY

who was worthy and brave

mostly when other people weren't watching

>

you don't win races that way

instead you make sure you're seen

doing the right things

by, to and with the right people

>

being unseen almost everywhere

keeping your unblown horn

in its case

not rushing to people

with a chair and a footstool

when you think they need

extrasuperspecial application

of thick, perhaps-sincere social butter

>

that's when you lose the race

and get buried

in the Potter's Field of Poetry

with the rest of the Goofuses

National Poetry Month--a glass half-full or half-empty?

If you're in the poetry-as-literature community, then National Poetry Month is a decorous, tasteful 30-day variant of Mardi Gras.

You can write 30 poems, one for each day, and cut/slice your art to fit whatever prompts are devised this year.

You can also go to poetry awards functions, where old and younger gods get honored--and communities send out subtle dog-whistles as to who and what poets/poetry/community service qualify for Hall of Fame status.

You can attend and/or participate in literary festivals in venues small and large.

And you can buy poetry books either online or in independent bookstores or dwindling megabook chain shops.

Then, the 30 days are over.

And you may find yourself one night in a second-hand bookstore (as I recently did) with several poetry books to trade for cash/credit and discover that the owner will only take Billy Collins (because he is a Household Name the owner recognizes) and Jack Hirschman (after I tell the owner that he's a surviving Northern California Beat, who has a Name, though not in as large a typeface as Billy Collins).

One can't help but wish that every day could be Poetry Day--without the attempt to compartmentalize it into only one month of ceremony that, for some, serves as lifeblood.

The relative utopia of the NYC folk music community in INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS.

A quick note regarding the new Joel and Ethan Coen film, which I saw this past weekend at the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood:
The folk music "scene" in New York City circa 1961 (i.e., prior to Bob Dylan's arrival and path to ultimate stardom, which was a tide that lifted boats for the folk genre nationwide) isn't idealized (two memorable moments include a scene involving boxes of unsold record albums and Llewyn Davis' Chicago audition for the seen-it-all-ten-times manager/promoter played by F. Murray Abraham), but the Coens' portrayal is notable for the way the members tend to help others--even those they dislike personally (a marked difference from some sectors of some poetry communities, where certain members feel compelled to put fellow poets down--without, I'm guessing, even bothering to read their work--in order to either score brownie points or remind other poets of the Kings/Kingmakers they once were in halcyon days).

See the film, then feel free to return and comment on this post.

Glad I didn't give up writing poetry.

Received this opinion years ago from someone who used to live in SoCal and now lives elsewhere in the country:
You're right, it's not a level playing field, and you don't get points for just being there. You've actually got to do something well. Writing well would be a start. I DO remember your chapbook. I still have it, in the piles of several hundred that I dutifully carried with me cross-country when I moved. Terry, it was dull. Very dull. Not bad, but there was little of interest going on there. I don't recall if I had read it yet when I saw you in Redondo, but even if I had, I doubt I would have said much. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, it bored me to tears." But as I recall, it took me awhile to get around to it, because, even now, I get a ton of chapbooks very month. I've not thrown one away, and I try to read them all, but no, I can't review them, and I really had nothing consequential to say about it, for good or bad. As to my "wisdom would be something of value," Whatever. I don't recall volunteering to be your mentor, and while I've taught poetry in high schools and colleges, I don't recall you being in any of my classes. The sad fact is, Terry, I thought you were a nice guy,and always tried to be friendly to you, but no, I didn't care much for your writing. Would you have preferred that I said that? I can't see what good that would have done. It's not like I walked out of the room when you were on the microphone. Maybe you've gotten better, I don't know.

The happy ending to the story above: a poem of mine made it into a literary journal recently--along with a poem by the writer above (plus his talented spouse).

Since I've been outspoken about the writer in the past (more than once--though with occasional positive words), I'm not expecting any response.

Just happy that I kept writing and learning about writing without being wounded enough by his opinionating to give up poetry altogether.

Poet Julia Stein gets Murrayed.

"If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it."--Elmore Leonard

But in the world of poetry, some people (particularly reviewers who wish to culturally shape their communities) prefer writing that sounds like writing.

Here are two excerpts from G. Murray Thomas' review of Julia Stein's book WHAT WERE THEY LIKE?

But too often the poems acquire their power through flat statements, rather than poetic language. This is especially true in the final lines with which she closes many of her poems. Too often they end with a line which punches the gut without engaging the imagination. “A cruise missile left her/ paralyzed on half of her body.” (“I Wanted to Believe”); “I ask Congress to stop the destruction of this city.” (“Do I look like a Sumerian goddess”); “she wants to send money to stop the war” (“My Mama Remembers”).

What Were They Like? delivers a powerful anti-war message. Stein succeeds in her goal of showing the lives of average people swept up in the horror of war. But I’m sad to say it rarely rises to the level of great poetry in the process. Regular readers of my reviews know I like my poetry open-ended. I like to discover meaning in the poems I read, not be slapped in the face with it. Poetry is such a perfect format for expressing ambiguity that, to be honest, I feel cheated when a poet does less with it.

The full review can be read at http://www.poetix.net